


Join or Die

by ChancellorGriffin



Series: 2017 & 2019 "The 100" Kink Meme Fills [11]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Manipulation, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 05:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17574872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancellorGriffin/pseuds/ChancellorGriffin
Summary: Season 3 reversal AU. Kane gets chipped first, and A.L.I.E. makes him try to fuck Abby into compliance.





	Join or Die

**Author's Note:**

> Hella dubcon, since Kane obviously has no ability to consent with an evil AI in his head, and Abby doesn't know Kane's not really Kane until it's too late, but also they always want to rip each other's clothes off in every universe.
> 
> (Eventually I will add a chapter 2 where they have tender healing un-chipped hurt/comfort sex in Polis for the first time, so DON'T WORRY, EVERYBODY, THEY'RE GONNA BE FINE, but this does go to somewhat darker places than most of my Kabby fic tends to go)
> 
> P.S. this is based on a prompt from the recent "The 100" kink meme on LiveJournal (original link here - https://100kinkmeme.livejournal.com/3621.html?thread=1230885#t1230885), so thanks to whoever prompted it!

She can’t stop trying the door again.  
  
She knows it’s foolish – it hasn’t magically unlocked itself since the last time she tried, two minutes ago – but there’s nothing else to do except pace. She’s too high up in the tower for the window to be a possible exit, that was her first thought, but she’s at least twelve stories up, and it’s a nearly sheer drop straight to the ground.  
  
Besides, even if she survived the fall, Thelonious and his eerie corps of serenely smiling Grounders are still milling about at the base of the tower, and she doesn’t trust Thelonious any further than she can throw him right now.  
  
For a heartbeat, in the back of the crowd, she thought she’d caught sight of Jackson; but that was impossible, surely? If Jackson were here he would have broken down the door to get to her hours ago. He would never have sided with Thelonious, he would never have taken the chip, and he would _never_ leave Abby stranded in a locked tower with no news of her daughter.  
  
Or of the man she’d kissed for the first time before disappearing out through the walls of Arkadia, following Octavia Blake to safety while he stayed behind with Lincoln to keep their people safe.  
  
So she paces, and tries the door again, and paces, and tries the door again, and by the time she finally hears a commotion in the hallway outside she has no idea whether she’s been in this room for minutes or hours or days.  
  
The door crashes open, two Polis tower guards dragging in a slumped, stumbling figure, shoving him inside and locking them in together.  
  
Her heart leaps in her chest.  
  
It’s _him._  
  
He’s here. Against all the odds, he’s _here,_ he found her, and everything is going to be all right.  
  
“Marcus,” she whispers, as he stands up, dazed, and suddenly sees her.  
  
“Abby,” he breathes, moving swiftly towards her. “Thank God.”  
  
His face has clearly been beaten, a sight which causes a surge of fury to rise up in her chest. She’s never been a violent woman, but the thought of strangling Thelonious Jaha with her bare hands has never been more appealing. Marcus has a split lip, and the blue-purple shadow of bruises down the side of his face, and she's _livid._  
  
_How dare they touch him. How dare they._  
  
“Are you all right?” she whispers fiercely, cradling his jaw in her hands. “Did they hurt you?”  
  
_Did they torture you,_ she really means. _Did they make you suffer because you refused to take the chip, and will you do what you always do and pretend your own pain is nothing to save me worry?_  
  
Marcus shakes his head. “They found me hiding in the woods near the camp,” he explains, then steps closer to her. “Please,” he whispers urgently. “Tell me you know where Clarke is.”  
  
It’s the last thing she expected from him, and it causes her heart to drop instantly to the base of her stomach. “No,” she whispers, panic rising. “I thought she was here.”  
  
Sweet God in heaven, if Clarke never made it to Polis, then _where the hell is she?_  
  
“No,” says Marcus, “I saw them shoot at her.” His voice is breaking with anxiety and panic, and underneath her own worry she feels a swell of affection in her chest. That he worries about Clarke like this. That he has been trying so hard to find her. "She got in the Rover with Jasper,” he continues, “and they got away. I’m sure.”  
  
Abby breathes a sigh of relief. “That’s good,” she tells him, gripping his arms tightly, trying to let her strength flow into his body. “If the others found her, that means she’s safe.”  
  
But Marcus shakes his head, still vibrating with fear. “Listen to me,” he says insistently. “They’re after Clarke.”  
  
Abby’s blood reverses itself in her veins, and she feels cold all over. “How do you know they’re after her?” she whispers.  
  
“They questioned me for hours. She has something that they want.”  
  
“What?” Abby demands, gripping his arms tightly. _“What?”_  
  
But he shakes his head helplessly, brow furrowed. “I don’t know.”  
  
Abby moves away, needing air, needing light, and takes herself over closer to the window. Something isn’t right here, something is itching at her, something just below the surface she can’t name. Like a flash of movement in the periphery of her vision, like a word on the tip of her tongue she can’t remember.  
  
_Something here is very wrong._

“Abby,” he says fervently, and she turns, feeling him moving towards her, his face raw with anguish. “I’m afraid.”  
  
Everything in the whole world – even the terrifying puzzle of her missing daughter – evaporates, just for a moment, and she steps forward to take him into her arms.  
  
He asks for comfort so rarely. He shows this side of himself to so few. It’s a sign of how desperate things are, that he’s so naked with her, that he’s allowing her to witness his vulnerability.  
  
She holds him close, arms wrapped tightly around his back, savoring the feel of this. There was no time, in Arkadia, for a tender embrace. One fierce, urgent kiss, her mouth crashing into his, wild, frantic, she didn’t even know what came over her except the fear that she’d never see him again. She’s never held him like this, with the luxury of time (the only gift of captivity, really). She’s never been able to let herself simply melt into his body, feel the power of his broad chest pressed against her own, disappear into the warmth of his arms. It’s a brief moment of respite in the hell of this surreal, nightmarish day, and she lets herself savor it, for as long as it lasts.  
  
Then her heart stops beating, as his body shifts in her arms and suddenly his mouth is on her neck.  
  
_Oh, God._  
  
And he can’t, she can’t, they _can’t_ , not here, not now, not in this room, not surrounded by all these people, not today, but _oh God,_ it wasn’t an accident, he really is kissing her there, he’s found the magic spot in the hollow of her throat that sends heat surging between her thighs every time, and the whisper of his beard against her skin is intoxicating enough until she feels a liquid warmth she suddenly realizes is his tongue. She’s too astonished to resist as he nuzzles hungrily into her, she’s wholly frozen, it’s the unlikeliest thing she could imagine from Marcus Kane but it’s also the thing she’s wanted for so long that she can’t do anything except shift her weight to press her thighs together as she feels wetness begin to pool between them.  
  
He makes his way urgently up her throat, to her jaw, before pulling back, cupping her face roughly in her hands, and giving her a look she’s never seen in his eyes before. It’s pure lust, unfiltered, dark and raw, and she suddenly imagines his lips parting to whisper the words, _I’m going to fuck you so hard you can’t see straight, Abby,_ and a shiver sweeps through her whole body.  
  
At first, when he kisses her, she’s still too dumbstruck to respond, but he’s persistent, he’s seducing her like she’s never imagined this man could seduce a woman. He’s a blunt instrument, Marcus Kane, frank and honest (sometimes _too_ honest), yet almost pathologically unsure of himself. _Have I made a mistake? Was this wrong? Am I the kind of man I want to be? Is there a better way?_  
  
But this Marcus Kane, he’s _shockingly_ sure of her. His tongue glides out from between his parted lips to lick gently at hers, teasing her mouth open, slowly, determinedly, prodding her bit by bit into yielding, and she knows he wants her to be thinking, _this is how he would lick my clit_ – which is, in fact, exactly what she’s thinking.  
  
Her mouth tumbles open, and his tongue surges inside, and then the animal inside the man takes over and her whole body is one desperate, screaming, wild _Yes_ of ecstasy.  
  
_Yes,_ as his arms tighten around her, locking her inside them, like a bird in a cage.  
  
_Yes,_ as his big, powerful body backs her up across the room.  
  
_Yes, yes, yes,_ as he shoves her forcefully down onto the threadbare velvet sofa and descends on top of her, hands wildly tearing at her clothes, and _oh God,_ no one has touched her like this in so long she’s forgotten what it felt like.  
  
“Abby, let me fuck you,” he says, but it’s a command, not a question, it’s the most breathtakingly erotic thing anyone has ever said to her in all her life, and it’s the thing she wants most in the world anyway, so she doesn’t resist, not even a little bit, as he begins to tear off all her clothes. 

She wants him so badly she doesn’t even question it, not at first. The logical part of her brain has long since been silenced. There’s a bed just behind them, but he doesn’t seem to want to bother with it, like he can’t take his mouth or hands off her for long enough to get them there, and the feeling of being desired like this is exhilarating. The Marcus Kane she’s slowly fallen in love with since they landed on the ground is a different man than the one she knew on the Ark; he’s warmer, more thoughtful. He listens when she speaks, and pays attention. He’s gentle and funny and kind, and his awestruck wonder at the beauty of Earth reminds her heartbreakingly of his mother.  
  
But that Marcus Kane isn’t in this room.  
  
It’s the old Kane, the ferocious, domineering one who is yanking the shirt off her head so hard he almost takes Jake’s ring with it, and then tearing open her bra with both hands, roughly taking a breast in his mouth and sucking so hard she can feel him leave a bruise there. She never thought she wanted that Kane, didn’t even like him that much; but now it’s becoming increasingly clear, as her cunt clenches tightly in rhythm with his mouth and hands, that there might have been something else behind her constant annoyance, how deeply he’d managed to get under her skin.  
  
Was it this?  
  
Every time she glowered at him as he strode coldly down the Ark’s grim halls, was it because all along some part of her wanted him to grip her by the shoulders and throw her against a steel bulkhead and lick hot kisses into her neck and unzip his jeans and –  
  
“Oh God,” she whimpers, returning to earth and realizing that he’s put the tattered remnants of her bra to surprising use:  
  
Her wrists are now bound together over her head.  
  
No one has ever done this to Abby in bed, and her cunt is aching so desperately she’s in _pain._ She thinks she might come before he even touches her, but she doesn’t end up having to wait that long.  
  
He tears off her jeans and her thin cotton shorts (when did her boots come off? How did she fail to notice? What is he _doing_ to her?), and kneels, still fully dressed, between her legs, lifting her thighs to brace them on his muscled shoulders as he bends his head and then _fuck, Jesus, fuck, oh God, fuck,_ the whole rest of the world melts away and nothing on earth exists except his lips and tongue and beard ravenously devouring her cunt.  
  
She comes in less than a minute, she was already hovering over the edge, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t even appear to notice, just laps up the wetness and plunges in further. Jake was always tentative about this, had to be nudged along, guided, but Abby doesn’t need to guide Marcus (even if she could, which she can’t, with her hands bound). He seems to be led by an inner voice telling him exactly where to go, what to do, how to tease and torment and pleasure her, and she’s forgotten about Clarke, she’s forgotten it’s broad daylight, she’s forgotten that Thelonious or his guards could walk in on them at any moment to find her screaming on the Commander’s velvet couch with her legs spread wide as Marcus sucks her clit.  
  
She’d thought, somehow, that their first time would be different. She’d imagined it as a tender, tentative affair, two bodies accustomed to loneliness and vulnerable in their middle age, rediscovering each other after years of solitude. She’d never have expected to be ravished like this, devoured with a wolflike intensity, Marcus’ tongue plunging into her without even requesting entry, just wordlessly sensing what she wants and giving it to her. She’d imagined him more hesitant, somehow; she’d always expected he would ask her, before each step. “Is this okay?” he would murmur, stroking an errant lock of hair out of her face. “Can I touch you here? Do you like it like this?”  
  
But instead, he’s gripping her ass so hard she’ll have bruises from his fingertips tomorrow, and he’s fucking her cunt with his tongue as her wetness coats his mustache and beard and lips and nose, like he doesn’t even care how messy it is, like the fastidious Kane she used to know who lined up his books by height has evaporated completely, and as her hips lift and lift, a second orgasm sweeps through her, and still, Marcus doesn’t stop, not even to breathe.

He’s so determined to make her come, over and over and over again, that he’s like a machine, he doesn’t even seem to need to come up for air. By the fourth orgasm, her clit is so raw from the scratch of his beard and his relentless licking and sucking that she finally has to wriggle her hips away.  
  
“No more, baby,” she whispers weakly, “it’s too sensitive, I can’t – I just need a minute –"  
  
Instantly he’s back on top of her, his mouth pressed against hers, tongue sweeping hard into her mouth, hands clutching at her breasts so tightly she can feel his fingers digging into the delicate flesh, and before she can ask him for what she wants next he gives it to her, plunging his cock hard and fast into her without even a word of warning.  
  
The faint little whisper of _something wrong_ begins to tap at the inside of her skull again – would he really, no matter how desperately he wanted her? Would he just _take_ her like this, urgent and greedy and demanding? Would he enter her without asking, even if he knew she wanted it?  
  
“Baby,” she says desperately, struggling to wriggle out of their constraints even as her hips lift up and up to meet his, to take in more of him, inch by inch, reveling in the delicious pressure of being stretched open. “Marcus, honey, should we – we’ve never talked about this –"  
  
“Haven’t we?” he murmurs into the hollow beneath her ear, his breath hot on her skin. “Haven’t you always known? Hasn’t it been there, every time we touch each other? Every time we _look_ at each other?”  
  
“Marcus –"  
  
“Tell me how to make you feel good,” he purrs into her skin, making her shiver. “I’ll do anything. I’ll give you anything.”  
  
And suddenly, there he is, _this_ is the Marcus Kane she knows, the one who wants only to give her all of himself, and she chides herself for doubting him, for resisting, because he’s _right,_ he didn’t ask because he didn’t _have_ to, he saw it all over her face and he gave her what she needed without making her say it out loud.  
  
She could _never_ have brought herself to ask for this.  
  
She could never have looked at him, gentle and serious, lying in his bed in Arkadia, and said to him, “Marcus, I want you to rip off my clothes so hard that my bra tears in half, and then I want you to tie me up and eat me out until my clit is sore from coming so many times, before you fuck me so hard I almost black out.”  
  
But it’s exactly what she wants, right now.  
  
She’s tired and frightened and the last few weeks – months, really – have been hell, and Marcus has been the only thing she’s had to hold onto since Pike and Thelonious turned their quiet, content existence inside-out, and what she really wants is to be _somewhere else,_ to set that all down, just for a minute, and rest. She wants to be fucked out of her body so that nothing exists but this, and Marcus loves her (he hasn’t said it yet, but she knows) and more importantly, he _sees_ her, so here he is, pressing her back into the threadbare velvet of a hundred-year-old couch, knees braced on either side of her hips, plunging his cock into her over and over and over again, and my God, when they get home to Arkadia she’s moving all her possessions into his bedroom and never leaving it again.  
  
“Don’t stop,” she gasps. “I need this. I need you. Don’t stop.”  
  
“Abby,” he whispers into her skin, his tongue hot, his beard rough, the scrape of his teeth sending a sharp little zing of pain-pleasure along the delicate tendon of her throat as he grasps her ass and lifts her whole body – cock still buried inside her, as she wraps her legs around his back – to deposit them both roughly onto the fur-covered bed, her bound hands outstretched above her head.  
  
“Surrender to me,” he breathes as he mounts her, the head of his cock buried so deeply inside her that she feels like her entire body is being ripped apart, and it’s such a deliciously odd, bizarrely erotic thing for him to say that her cunt begins to pulse and shudder. “Let me take care of you, Abby,” he murmurs. “Let me take every weight off your shoulders. Let me give you everything you need.”

“Oh God, Marcus,” she whimpers, and tries to wriggle her hands free again so she can touch him, but his hands slide up her arms to pin her down firmly against the mattress. “Marcus, you’re, I’m, I can’t, it’s too – “  
  
“Let go,” he commands her, his voice low and pulsing, and she feels the beginnings of an almost violent orgasm begin to swell up inside her, seeming to come from the furthest depths of herself, from the place where her soul lives, and she opens herself up to it, gripping his body with her thighs since she can’t tangle her fingers in his hair the way she wants to.  
  
And then, abruptly, he pulls out of her, nearly all the way, nothing left of him but the flared head nudging at her entrance, and she’s desolate, hollow, aching, the climax she’d braced for beginning slowly to ebb.  
  
“No,” she whispers, eyes wide and desperate. “No, please, Marcus, I need –“  
  
“Let go, Abby,” he commands her, voice low, hypnotic, soothing. “You don’t have to fight anymore. You don’t have to do anything. I’m here. Let me be everything you need.”  
  
“Marcus, please, please, I need you, I’m so –“  
  
“Shhhhh,” he murmurs, hands roaming all over her body. “I need to feel you let go, Abby. I need to feel you submit to me.”  
  
She gazes up at him, biting her lip, lust racing through her veins like fireworks. She’s never played this game in bed before, Jake liked that she was the bossy one, and her attempts at getting him to take control and be the dominant one often crashed and burned because he could never take it seriously. They laughed too much in bed for any kind of naughty roleplay to stick.  
  
But it makes sense, in a delicious way, that this would be erotic for Kane, after all their years of jockeying back and forth with each other for power (especially given how many times it’s been her that won). He must be back on the Ark, in his mind, like she is, he must be imagining what she’s imagining – him ripping her clothes off and throwing her down onto the Council table after a particularly heated meeting and fucking her into compliance with his demands.  
  
“I submit,” she whispers, letting her whole body go soft and limp and still, and he looks down at her with dark, solemn eyes, and then there he is again, filling her up, the lurid smack of flesh on flesh so loud she’s sure the guards outside can hear them. And this time, she doesn’t raise her hips to his, she doesn’t struggle to free her hands so she can embrace him, she doesn’t fuck him back. She yields to the fantasy, submits completely, shivering at the delicious fantasy as she watches the stern, fierce Marcus Kane she hasn’t seen in so long as his cock surges and leaps inside her.  
  
His endurance is nothing short of astonishing, nearly superhuman; she can’t believe he hasn’t even begun to flag yet, but keeps thrusting into her as though he could do this all night, without growing weary, without his own climax slowing the process down.  
  
. . . Almost as though his body isn’t feeling anything.  
  
Oh no.  
  
Oh Jesus, no.  
  
Her eyes fly open wide, and she starts to say the thing out loud, but then there it is, the orgasm he’d held back from her, and it tears through her so forcefully that for a long, long moment there’s nothing else but this, everything goes dark and her head is swimming and her body has dissolved and no one has ever made her feel like this in all her life.  
  
All conscious thought flies out of her mind, and she collapses onto the mattress, limp and soft and sweaty and more sated than she’s felt in years, and she lingers in that delicious fog for a long, long time.  
  
Then she opens her eyes.  
  
He’s still there, his big hard body blanketing hers, his cock pistoning in and out of her, once again riding out her climax as though he’s hardly even registered it, and even though her whole body is screaming out to her to submit to him again, to let him give her another orgasm like that one, her mind is finally, finally clear.  
  
She yanks her wrists apart, tearing the remnants of her bra in half, and pushes his body off her, his cock sliding wetly out as she shoves him away and scrambles desperately out of the bed.

He rises from the bed to follow her, cock still iron-hard, taunting her with its presence (a treasonous part of her mind keeps pulling her gaze down to it, already missing the sensation of it inside her, longing to stroke its slick, rosy length, grip it in her fingers, take it in her mouth . . .)  
  
“Abby,” he says, urgency in his eyes, but it’s too late.  
  
She knows.  
  
He steps toward her, but she backs away, shaking her head, holding her hand outstretched to keep him at a distance. Her voice breaks as the words tumble out.  
  
“You’ve taken the chip.”  
  
And she wants to be wrong, she wants him to deny it, she wants him to say, “Abby, you know me, I would never do that.” She wants him to break the mirror on the wall and take a shard of glass and hand it to her and dare her to cut his flesh open, to watch the pain on his face. She wants him to seize her in his arms and tell her, “No, love, no, it was real, all of this was real.”  
  
But he doesn’t.  
  
Instead, his face goes blank and the door crashes open as a horde of guards storm in, and she doesn’t even care that their rough hands are gripping her naked body, because all she can think about is him.  
  
_Fuck you,_ she thinks to Thelonious and his blue plastic chips and his City of Light and his mind-controlled drones. _Fuck you, for taking this from us. For taking this from him._  
  
They drag her away, through the tower, as she screams his name, desperately, trying to wake him up, fighting as hard as she can for the last piece of Marcus Kane she knows must be in there.  
  
The Marcus Kane who would be pounding at the walls of his own poisoned mind, fighting desperately to get free, watching his own body in horror as he did things to Abby’s body that he’d always wanted to do but never dared to ask for.  
  
It will feel like a violation to him, when he returns to himself, if they both survive this, she thinks. He will loathe himself for this forever. He will be frightened of her touch. He will believe he took advantage of her. Used her. Tried to fuck her into complicity, so she would take the chip herself.  
  
_Go to hell, Thelonious._  
  
As though Marcus didn’t already feel like enough of a monster, weighed down by the sins of his past.  
  
This is the cruelest thing Thelonious could possibly have done.  
  
She screams his name until her throat is raw, as her body is lifted onto the cross, as she watches him kneel in the mud with the same blank, serene expression as all the others, as Thelonious holds a gun pointed at the gray-streaked temple her mouth was so recently kissing, and the last conscious thought in her mind – before surrendering, chest raw with sobs, to allow a chip to be placed between her lips – is a vow that she will find a way to destroy the City of Light, and bring Marcus back to her.  
  
Then the chip dissolves, sugary-sweet on her tongue, and everything goes white, and all is silence.

* * * * *

“Abby!” she hears that beloved voice exclaim joyously, as she opens her eyes, blinking in the brilliant sunlight, to see him standing with his hands outstretched to her.  
  
He’s wearing a crisp gray suit with a sky-blue tie, and a long black woolen overcoat. She looks down and realizes she’s dressed to match him – tall black boots, a blue-and-gray dress, a black coat of her own, and a blue scarf knotted around her throat.  
  
The clothes are unfamiliar, but she likes them.  
  
“Welcome to the City of Light,” he says, stepping close to her and bending down to kiss her mouth. “I’ve been waiting for you, my love. I’m so glad you’re here.”  
  
“How did I get here?” she murmurs, looking around at the unfamiliar surroundings – a crowded city street, sparkling blue water in the distance behind a row of glass-and-steel buildings. "What is this place?"  
  
“Does it matter?” he asks her. “As long as we’re together?”  
  
She smiles up at him. “No,” she agrees. “I guess it doesn’t.”


End file.
